The Phone Rang
by Grand Puba of All The Smurfs
Summary: Grissom gets a call from Greg. Oneshot, CD.


A\N-Plot bunnies, you never fail. Enjoy and review.

Grissom fumed.

Greg was supposed to be back from the scene hours ago.

It was a simple suicide case; some deadbeat junkie hung himself in some grimy warehouse off the Strip. Pictures, bagging, done. It couldn't take that goddamn long to fucking do it. He wasn't that bloody incompetent, right?

His phone rang.

"Hello." He answered gruffly, brow furrowed.

"Grissom?" It was a shaky, yet recognizable voice. Weak and defenseless, barely in solitude mind.

"Greg, where the hell are you?" Grissom snapped. Greg groaned.

"Can you not talk so loud…fuck, I've got a killer headache." He mumbled. Grissom's eyes bugged in fury.

"_Headache_? I don't care about your headache, Greg, _where the hell are you_?"

"Warehouse, I think…"

"_You think!?!"_ Grissom was furious; speaking so loud Catherine, walking by his open door, stopped and curiously peered in.

"Yeah…It's kind of dark…man, my head _hurts_." Greg sounded genuinely in pain, but his boss was too mad to notice.

"What the hell are you still doing there?" Grissom managed to get this final question in before Catherine pried the phone from his ear and hit the speaker button. Greg's weak voice was fully audible now, as were his deep, uneven breaths.

"I found something about the…junkie guy." Was the response.

"Well? What is it?" Grissom had lowered his voice, yet it was still considerably loud. Catherine closed the door in order to muffle it from the turned heads outside.

"Wasn't…it wasn't a sui--" A cough briefly interrupted the young man's information, "--cide. Murder…"

"What? Are you sure?" Catherine had her hand on the wheel this time, mouth inches from the speaker.

"Yeah…stab wound in the chest…think someone cleaned him up and changed the clothes…" Another cough practically shook the phone.

"Why are you coughing so much?" Grissom asked, voice softened.

"Uh…see, this guy came out."

"What guy? What happened?" Catherine seemed rather frantic, having sat down and picking up the phone to her ear, despite the speaker.

"I dunno…" Greg's voice was slurring with each sentence, "…didn't really see him. Kinda came from behind…Something in my back. Fell…"

"Greg, _what happened_?" Grissom yanked the cell away from his blonde friend.

"Another in my chest…tired…" His voice was so soft and withered, the wind scowls in jealousy.

"Greg, are you hurt?" Catherine was soft-spoken now, worry tainting her blue eyes.

"Hit my head, I think…think that's blood…"

"Where's the blood, how much?" Catherine was adamant in achieving custody of the cell phone.

"Lotta places…lotta blood…who turned on the lights?" Greg's voice faded.

"Greg…_Greg…_GREG!" Catherine screamed, snapping her fingers. In an instant, Grissom had the landline on his desk in tote, dialing for an ambulance.

"Please don't scream…Catherine? When'd you get on?" A groan erupted from the speaker.

"Greg, I've been on. Look, just please stay on the line--"

"Can't it wait? I'm tired."

"I know, hon, you can sleep later. Help's on the way."

"I don't need help, I need a freaking blanket…it's freezing…"

Catherine could hardly breath. Greg sounded like a sleepy child, so small. She didn't know what happened, only that he must've been stabbed. Or hit. Or something.

"Catherine?" Greg asked.

"Yes?"

"It wasn't a suicide." His voice was garbled now, barely coherent.

"I know. You told me." She said.

"Did I?"

"Yes. Greg, what do you see?"

"Stuff…a chair…some sheets…gross." His tone switched over to lightheartedly disgusted.

"What?"

"Some dude's hanging from the ceiling."

Catherine turned to Grissom, who had hung up his landline and caught the tail end of her side.

"He's delusional, when's that bus getting there?" She asked him.

"On their way in a few minutes."

"Listen to him, Gil, we don't _have _a few minutes!"

"You talking about me?" A voice interrupted. It was Greg on Grissom's cell phone.

Catherine sighed.

"Yes, Greg. Help's coming, just stay on the line."

"Don't wanna." Greg said stubbornly, worn.

"I don't care, alright, you've got to hang on. Talk about something." Catherine tried desperately to sound cheerful.

"Nothing to talk about. Catherine, I'm tired."

"I _know_, Greg, I _heard you!_ Do you hear sirens.

"A little…why's there so much blood? Is that mine?" Greg's groggy voice was declining into itself, words toppling over themselves in rapid confusion. Sirens could be heard in the background.

"Help's there, hon, alright?" Catherine distressed.

"I think my phone's outta batteries…sorry, I'm gonna sleep for awhile."

"No, you can't!"

"Sorry, got like, two seconds juice…"

"Greg!"

"Sorry, Cath…my Blue Hawaiian's in the…yeah, in the little hole behind the AV lab. Y'know, the one with the blue chair over it…yeah, that's where it is."

"Why are you telling me that, Greg?" Grissom and Catherine crowded around the receiver.

"You sound mad…might cheer you up…I'm really tired…sorry." A small bang erupted; something dropped.

"Greg…Greg, oh god, Greg, answer me or you're fired!" Catherine, having no real authority to do so, shrieked. Grissom was rapidly calling for Warrick and Nick and Sara and whoever the hell he was. Catherine wasn't listening.

A muffled sorry was softly whispered from what seemed to be above the phone which gave way to static. Then the line went dead.

Had Greg charged his phone that morning, Catherine, Grissom, and the newly arrived nightshift CSI team, not knowing what the hell was going on, would've heard the paramedics burst into the house where the stabbed and hanged man dangled and the bloody CSI lay dying. They would've heard them haul him to a gurney, trying to stop the rapid bleeding from his back and chest and head. Two stab wounds. One case of blunt force trauma from the fall.

They would've heard a heart monitor set up, a count of breath, a jolt of paddles hitting flesh. Keep the heart pumping was their intention. They shan't succeed, for Greg Sanders was all too determined to take a nap.

A flat line is what they would've heard had the silver phone, found inches from his pale hand, abandoned on the wooden floor, been charged more than it had been.

Frantic commands.

Zaps of electricity.

Horrid screams.

Those are what he would've heard.

However, what they wouldn't have heard, what the paramedic's failed to hear, what only Greg's final companion, his solace, the wafting wind, could possibly understand, was the faint whisper escaping his blue lips before they slacked.

"Sorry, Cath."


End file.
